


(i did you wrong)

by lazarov



Series: Paris Blue [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Heartbreak, London, M/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis has always found salvation in a cup of shitty diner coffee.</p><p>(how it would have maybe/almost/sort of ended, before it began again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(i did you wrong)

**Author's Note:**

> I never finished the Paris Blue series (for _reasons_ which I would hope are _good reasons_ ), but this has been sitting in my Google Docs for literal years now in its pretty-much-complete form.
> 
> I might finish it all one day. In the meantime, this is how it would have kind-of, sort-of ended before it all began again in part 3. 
> 
> I hope it's worth something.

 

* * *

 

 

_have you eaten breakfast?  let's go right now_

_ok, getting dressed, text me the address_

 

* * *

 

 

Louis beats Harry to the cafe, a tiny greasy spoon down the street from Liam's.  It was the first place that came to mind, that's all -- just a cheap diner, somewhere to get a cup of coffee; only once he sits down and orders does Louis realize that it's maybe a little fucked up to take the tube across the city just to have breakfast a block from his and Liam's old flat.  _But that's not what this is_ , Louis thinks, as the waitress clinks a scuffed mug down in front of him and fills it to the brim (she forgets his cream, he doesn't bother asking again).  _No, that's not what this is_.  

Louis has always found salvation in a cup of shitty diner coffee.

They used to go to church on Sundays, Louis and his mum.  They'd wake up real early and brush their teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, sticking out their tongues and making foamy faces at each other.  She used to keep an egg timer on the edge of the sink, always insisting that Louis brush his teeth _just so_ \- he still, subconsciously, is meticulous with a toothbrush.  Circular strokes, two full minutes, _don't forget your tongue, darling_.  Clean teeth meant they could go to church and get clean consciences, too.  

Her conscience, anyway.

When he was six, and his mum started bringing boyfriends home, and when confession wasn't enough to clean their consciences, they started to skip church and go for Sunday breakfast instead.  As long as he can really remember, Louis' mum has apologized with rashers and eggs and beans (he wonders whether or not, if he were to go home tomorrow, she'd meet him at the door with a fry-up).  They'd get up early and doll themselves up -- Louis, like a good boy, would brush his hair and tie his own shoes and wait by the door quietly until Mum came out of her bedroom.  Sometimes, on the good mornings (the mornings when she smelled like heavy perfume and not like the sour breath she always got after nights when her and her boyfriends would yell at each other and she'd tell Louis to lock himself in the bathroom and sometimes he'd hear bangs and curse words) -- on those good mornings, she would turn away from doing her makeup in the mirror and sweep her blusher gently over Louis' cheeks so Louis could feel pretty, too.

He orders coffee and eggs and toast and sits impatiently with his heel bouncing up and down on the linoleum and his knee banging against the underside of the table.  The repetitive bumps slowly move his cup toward the edge of the table -- just in time, he reaches out and slides it back to the centre before it can fall, looping his fingers in the handle for good measure.  

Harry's a little late, as he usually is.  

Louis' knee continues to thump nervously against the cheap fibreboard.  He chews at his cuticles and inspects his knuckles, resisting the temptation to text Liam.  Instead, he just scrolls through the last of their texts back and forth.  To torture himself, maybe; Louis isn't sure.  In a brief moment of bravery, he clicks _Edit_ and hovers his thumb over _Clear All,_ but then Harry arrives and he loses his nerve.  Louis slides his mobile safely back into his pocket.

"Hey!" Harry waves from the door.  He squeezes between chairs and tables and slides into the booth, across from Louis.  "Hey."

Louis swallows a mouthful of coffee and nods a hello.  He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and yawns, consciously gluing his heel against the floor.  His knee aches a little.  "Sorry it's so early.  Did I wake you?"

"Nah, it's okay."  Harry has his red-knuckled hands cupped around his mouth, trying to warm them with his breath.  Louis catches Harry's eyes dart down to his own gashed knuckles.  Harry's eyebrows knit together, briefly, before he realizes that Louis is watching him; his head snaps back up and he pretends to look around for a waitress.  "What's up?" Harry asks, nonchalant.  He catches a waitress's eye and waves her over.  "How are - you know, things."

"They're…" Louis rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands.  "Shit, actually."

"Yeah," Harry says noncommittally.  He orders tea.  Louis' toast and eggs are still sitting in front of him, untouched.  He asks for a refill on his coffee.

 "How are things with the band?"  Louis asks delicately.  He pokes at his eggs for a moment before setting his fork back down against his plate.

"Shit," Harry admits, shrugging.  "We're missing you.  And Liam's a wreck."  Louis feels a surge of gratefulness toward Harry for answering his other, unasked (but much more pressing) question.  

Harry picks up his tea and blows on it, taking a tentative sip.  He speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully.  "I mean, that doesn't mean - just because we miss you, doesn't mean you didn't fuck up really badly.  And, just because we miss you, it doesn't mean Liam doesn't come first - he does.  And... just because we're siding with Liam on this one - as we should - doesn't mean we don't still like you and wish you were still part of the band."  Louis stares blankly over Harry's shoulder, out the window of the diner.  He can feel Harry's eyes searching his face.

"Yeah," Louis says hoarsely, nodding.

"But we do miss you.  We've done a bunch of gigs since… Since what happened.  It's weird being on stage without you."  Harry shakes his head.  "Doesn't feel right.  Doesn't _sound_ right, either."

"I'm sorry," Louis offers.  Harry shakes his head again.

" _I'm_ sorry," Harry says, setting down his tea and flexing his fingers.   He clears his throat.   "I don't think any of us are supposed to tell you this, Liam didn't want us to at least, but…"  He pauses.

"What?  Did something happen?"  Louis' eyes flick up from his hands.

"No, no.  It's not like that -- well, I mean, something happened."  Harry takes a deep breath.  "We got an offer.  From a record company, they saw us play at The Coop.  Nothing major, obviously, it's just a tiny indie thing, but."

"Oh," Louis says, heart beating hard.  "Congratulations."  He pours himself another cup of coffee from the pitcher that the waitress left behind.  

"Thanks."  Harry stirs another spoonful of sugar into his tea.  Finally: "Why'd you do it, Lou?"  He says it evenly, doesn't look up from his tea.  He just keeps stirring and stirring, _clinkclinkclink,_ waiting patiently for an answer.  

Louis strains his ears and flicks his eyes across Harry's face, trying to find, in Harry's tone or posture or words, any suggestion of what Harry actually _knows._ Liam could have very well told him everything, every last fucking embarrassing, sordid detail, from Paris to Wolverhampton to London -- and if he had, Louis can't blame him.  Liam owes him nothing anymore.  

He's used to reading people, making snap judgments to figure out whether or not someone has the cash or not, or whether or not the guy's likely to beat the shit out of him.  Just from looking at him, Louis can tell whether or not he's going to have to suck the guy's cock or bend the guy over, whether or not the guy will complain about a condom or want to be cuddled after.

Just by looking at him, Louis can tell that Harry rolled out of bed in a hurry to meet him (crinkled t-shirt, hair still flattened on one side) and that Liam doesn't know Harry's here (no panicked texts from Liam flashing on Harry's phone). He can tell Harry's angry with him (because Louis isn't a fucking idiot).  But Harry won't give up what, exactly, he knows.

Louis realizes he's at a crossroads, one he knew he'd find himself at eventually.  So he asks, "Why did I do what, Harry?"  And then he holds his breath, his heart pounding and his knee bumping underneath the table.

"What do you mean, ' _what'?_ "

"What did Liam tell you I did?"

"I don't understand -"

"Just answer the question."

"He said you cheated -- with some guy from work.  I mean, that's what he told me."

Louis exhales, letting go of his coffee mug with trembling fingers.  He drags his hands through his hair, laughing quietly.  "That was nice of him."

Harry's eyebrows knit together.  "I'm confused -"

Elbows on the table, Louis hangs his head with his fingers threaded together behind his neck and stares at the scuffed-up grain of the cheap laminate table.  "Harry, I didn't cheat on him with some guy from work."

"Okay," Harry says slowly.  He taps his fingers on his mug.  "Who, then?"

Louis almost says, _Want me to list all of them?_   Instead, he lifts his head and shrugs.  "I'm a whore."

It's pathetic and melodramatic and Harry wrinkles his nose at him:  "No - I mean, you did something shitty -"

"Literally."

"What?"

"When you and Liam met me at the club that night -- I was working.  Picking up guys."

"… Oh."  Harry doesn't say anything else, and Louis feels compelled to fill the silence.

"I mean, I stopped.  When me and Liam."

"Uh huh."  Harry nods uncomfortably.  Louis nods back, not sure what else to explain (or how).  "But then you started again," Harry says.  His voice darkens.  "Without the courtesy of asking him.  Or even just, at the fucking least, telling him."

"Right," Louis says shakily.

"I don't know what to… did you at least…" Harry pauses, measuring his words.  He stares at the wall, his face flushed.  "Use _protection_?  For Liam's sake."

Louis bites his lip and looks away.

"Well, fuck you, then."

Harry’s words are biting, simultaneously expected yet unexpected, and Louis jolts a little as though he’s been slapped.  It’s useless, _so useless_ , but he tries to explain, hands waving pleadingly and his eyes desperately trying to catch Harry’s for any sign of understanding:  "I felt stuck -- I'm not cut out for the nine-to-five -- I'm not even sure I'm cut out for _relationships_. I get antsy, and I know how fucked up of me that is, to do that to Liam, and I didn't -- _Harry, I swear I didn't_ \-- really mean for it to go anywhere. I think I just wanted a little bit of attention, a little bit of  a rush, something stupid like that.  So I posted an ad online - selfishly, only selfishly - to see if I could still pull."

But Harry just stares into his empty mug for a while, then checks his phone. "Alright," he says, standing up and pulling on his coat.  "I guess you got your answer, didn't you?"

 

 


End file.
